At home, I peel out of my clothes and toss them into the corner of the bathroom. I run the shower, letting the ensuite fill with steam until it’s cloudy, then step carefully into the recess, closing the glass door behind me with both hands, so that it doesn’t make a sound. The welts sting as they come into contact with the water, and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, but it doesn’t ease the pain. I let myself remember the moment when the whipping was so intense that the grief had gone. My feelings, which were shoved to the outer by the hot pain, are once again running riot through my system. Therapy suddenly makes sense. I could talk them out, feel them trundle from my oesophagus to my tongue until, finally, I could spit them onto the floor of a therapist’s office. Or I could take drugs, wrapping them up in a chemical blanket. Place little happy masks over their faces. I could even birth them through my pores, through exercise, like Judy suggested. Anything. I will try anything to get these feelings out.
I kneel on the shower floor, lifting my hips so that my thighs are not in contact with anything. Hot water runs over my back as I grip a bar of soap, rubbing it between both hands until it foams into silky bubbles which I push into the folds of my body. Back of my heel. Forearms. I stay kneeling and washing until the water runs cold.
I wrap a towel around myself and walk to the window, letting the chill from the night radiate out from the glass and onto me. I step closer until I’m nose to nose with my own reflection. So close that my vision blurs, and I can see the shed and the silver banksia overlapping and merging with my features. I blow a long stream of breath onto the window and then pull away and write my mother’s name, but the fog evaporates before I’ve even reached the third letter. I inhale again, filling completely with air, before blowing it back out with purpose. I write across the glass, and watch as it turns again to nothing. I inhale. I blow. I write her name. I inhale. I expel. I write, and keep going until the oil from my finger smudges her name onto the glass, and instead of writing it, I can stand there watching as it reappears with each breath.
There’s a strong cramp in my lower abdomen, and I cup my hand between my legs. My period. I completely forgot. I try not to drip blood on the carpet as I stumble to the bathroom. With one hand, I check the cupboard under the sink for any tampons, knocking over hairspray and bottles of calamine lotion. Behind a plastic bag full of hotel soaps, I find an open box of applicator tampons. I pull one out, and as I turn to prop a leg up onto the toilet seat to insert it, I see the back of myself in the bathroom mirror. There are welts down my lower body in uneven stripes. Some have split, and one looks wet. I am so swollen that my thighs look heavier, warped and lumpy, and I am shocked by how much damage there is.
I sit on the edge of the bed with my shoulders hunched, wrapped in my father’s robe, letting the events of the evening settle over me like a rude cover, nailing me down. My pinched face looks back at me from the wardrobe mirror, all sunken-eyed and miserable.
I spend the next few hours scrolling through my phone. I look at social media, at memes, at photos of property renovations. I keep falling face first into the internet, tracking down viral videos, movie clips, pictures of pastry chefs piping icing onto cakes. I let the internet flow like water over my gills. I am letting myself mourn, and it is a fresh hell. Maybe, like Leo, I should find another willing person to be my worry doll; ask them to be the bag into which I can stuff all this feeling.
I recall the club he mentioned—the Widow Maker—and google it. The homepage appears in red and black with a filigree border. The Widow Maker: A Private and Notorious Corrections Facility. As I scroll down a little further, I see that they are holding workshops and play sessions every day of the week. Enjoy the thrill of debauchery and excess … Welcome to hedonism reborn. In large letters at the bottom of the page there is a flashing sign: 18+ ONLY.
They have a link to blog posts and I scroll through the headings that are listed down one side of the screen. The first on the list is titled A Good Domme Requires Listening Skills. The next, How to Be the Best Rope Bunny: Questions for Riggers. The next, Bespoke Spreader Bars. And then a bunch of questions, comments and queries about scenes. I click through a few, but I have to pause to look up each new word or phrase that I see. The general vibe of the site seems quite upbeat and practical.
I email them.
Hi, I recently experienced being a sub, but am more interested in trying out domming. I am also interested in receiving some aftercare too—please let me know if I can get some tomorrow, or when the soonest available slot is.
It’s four a.m. but within a few minutes I have a response.
Welcome Amelia, I’m Tanya, the facilitator of this place. You’ll need to learn the ropes with me, then you will be on probation, and then you will be a member. Just some light housekeeping: it’s sexual and it’s consensual but not always in a traditional class setting; we believe that you learn about it by doing it. Like play groups—but for adults! In regard to the aftercare, it’s something we educate on but don’t really provide unless it follows a play session here. If you are feeling particularly vulnerable we recommend tea with sugar and keeping warm. Also, don’t forget to treat your wounds following standard first aid procedures : ) Let’s schedule you in for an orientation and training session with me—today, if you like? Come by any time after midday.
A plan is progress, so much so that I feel I might actually be able to sleep. I turn the bedside light off, pull the covers up to my chin. My head sinks down into the old pillow, until it’s almost level with the mattress. I close my eyes and will sleep to come to me.
There is something small and irritating flapping at the window. I get up to check what is making such a distracting sound, and see a tiny silver moth beating its wings in one corner of the windowpane. I try to open the window, but the wood is so old that it’s stuck and won’t shift. The moth slaps at the glass repeatedly, desperate to escape. It’s going to hurt its wings if it keeps on like this, and I can’t stand the thought of it knocking all its special powder off and becoming flightless. I try to catch it on my hand but it evades me. I try again, making my hand flat like a plate and sliding it stealthily over so the moth steps onto it, but this moth knows that trick and it turns away from me with such insolence. It becomes more desperate to get out, and its wings blur with the effort of trying to free itself. It’s painful to watch, and without thinking I grab one corner of the curtain and cover the moth, pushing it into the glass with the heel of my palm until I hear the crunching sound of it dying. As soon as this happens, I see all the alternative actions I could have taken. I could have caught it in an empty cup, slid a piece of paper underneath, then walked outside and set it free. Instead I crushed it.
I drop the curtain and return to bed. Nothing feels more useless than killing a moth. There’s nothing more unnecessary.